Category Archives: Gretchen O’Donnell

Our mortal Ills

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It was a typical Sunday morning. Mom and Dad were up in the choir loft. My older sisters were sitting in the high school pew where I, aged ten, was definitely not allowed. I was sitting with the deacons in my favorite spot: at the back, with a clear view of everyone and everything that went on in the sanctuary.


Only this time the overflow room was open, which meant that there were people behind me, too. But I was okay with that. No big deal.
The service began and I stood dutifully for the first hymn, holding the blue hymnal and singing loudly.


“A mighty fortress is our God!” I sang out. “A bulwark never failing.”
And suddenly my tummy groaned. Not in an “I’m hungry” kind of way. But rather in an “I’m going to be sick” kind of way. But it had been drilled into me that I was supposed to stay in church and not leave. I was to use the restroom prior to the service and I was not to exit the room for any reason. I was to sit beside the deacons and not budge.
So I ignored my tummy’s warnings. And kept on singing.


“A helper he amid the flood / of mortal ills prevailing.”


It was as if Martin Luther was a prophet or something, because, wow, my mortal ills totally prevailed that day.


I threw up. Right there in the middle of church. And all those poor people in the overflow room knew it.


The deacons were very helpful. So was my school bus driver, who jumped up and led me to the bathroom.


Mom and Dad, way up in the choir loft, were oblivious.


I got cleaned up. The floor kinda did, too. I began to feel a little bit better. So, I returned to the sanctuary.


Yes, I did. I wasn’t supposed to leave, remember? I honestly never even considered that maybe this was one of those times when to skip the service would have been okay.


I sat down on my pew. I probably got a lot of dubious looks from the deacons. I swung my feet. I kinda listened to the sermon. And then, suddenly, it happened again.


All over the floor, all over myself.


My parents, now sitting in the front, were still oblivious. My sisters ought to have noticed but they pretended not to.


God bless those deacons.


I saw one of them a maybe ten years ago, when I was back visiting my old church. He was stooped. White hair. I thought he was old back when I was a kid, but he can’t have been that far off of what I am now. Most of the rest of them have gone on to be with Jesus, where no one throws up during service and they don’t have to mop up the results of our mortal ills.


The truth, of course, is that Luther was writing not about the stomach flu…but about sin. The true “mortal ill” that prevails within us. And Jesus, Luther’s “man of God’s own choosing” is sitting beside us, ready and willing to mop up our failings.


All we need to do is ask.


“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” 1 John 1:9.

A mother’s view of graduation

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There is nothing that prepares you for the emotions you face as your last child graduates from high school. It doesn’t matter how many people say things like, “Just be happy for her.” Or, “Don’t cry, it’s a great milestone.” Or, “Think of all the places you can travel as empty nesters!” Or, the worst, “Don’t keep focusing on these ‘lasts’”.

I will focus on these lasts if I want to focus on these lasts. I want and need to cherish these moments and not forget what it feels like to be a mother of a high school senior. To be a mother of a high schooler. To be a mother.

And actually, I think that’s okay.

When our first child graduated, seven years ago, I don’t recall being a total wreck. He was so ready to go off to college. So excited to see new things and be done with the old. 

When senior year began for our middle child two years later, I warned the remaining family that September, “You know I’ll be crying off and on all year, right?” 

“Yeah, Mom, we know.”

But then along came Covid 19 and the entire second half of her year was so unusual that when we walked, masked-up, into her high school to record her commencement speech, it felt so joyful that at least she could do this little thing that the tears were weirdly absent – I just couldn’t stop smiling.

Now it’s five years later and I’ve been cherishing the lasts all the more because our middle child missed so many of them. She missed prom. She missed her last orchestra, band, and choir concerts. She missed graduation with its parties and ceremonies and public awards. 

This third time around, each one of these events feels precious – almost sacred – and I am not taking them for granted. 

Please understand, I am not using that word sacrilegiously. If something is “sacred” or “holy” in the Bible, it means that thing is set apart. Sure, generally we use these words in a religious context, but we also speak of “sacred spaces”, a room or building or outdoor location that is “set apart” in purpose and feeling. It is held as a special place that one can go in order to, ideally, commune with God or nature or even one’s own self. 

Well, I do believe that these “lasts” are set apart, cherished moments, not only for my graduate, but for me. Set apart for me to breathe it all in. The recognitions, sure, the proud moments, yes, but also just set apart to bathe in the sheer ecstasy of being a mother.

Are all mothering moments ecstatic? Ummm…in the understatement of eternity…no. No, they are not. And that’s why I choose to revel in the ones that are. 

I choose to celebrate with tears and smiles and Facebook posts and phone calls and texts and more tears. I choose to brag about my child. I choose to invite friends to rejoice with me. I choose to cherish every. Single. Moment. 

Because being a mother is hard stinkin’ work. And I deserve this sacred time as much as my daughter does.

So if you see me crying at this event or that, if you’re talking to me and I suddenly burst into tears, if you question why I skipped a meeting or chose not to go to work one day, please understand this: I am cherishing all these moments, and it’s rather overwhelming.

But in a good way. In a marvelous, heart-bursting-with pride, wonderful kind of way.

The bone maker

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I’ve been thinking a bit about bones lately. Aching bones. Turkey bones. Dem bones. 

As far as aching bones are concerned, my fingers sometimes remind me that I’m almost 51 and it’s going to rain, only it’s been a dry year, so I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or if I really am getting arthritic in my (not so very) old age.

When it comes to turkey bones, however, I have a better grip on my knowledge. My mom was a magician when it came to turkey bones. The day after Thanksgiving she’d be back in the kitchen, removing every last vestige of meat from the once glorious turkey and plopping it into the largest cooking pot we owned along with an onion or two, celery, carrots, a bay leaf, salt and peppercorns and a whole lot of water. That thing would go on the back burner and simmer all day, coaxing out the goodness of the bones.

It always amazed me how Mom could make something out of nothing. 

This year I cooked down the turkey bones, too. I don’t do it every year. Sometimes I stick it in the freezer, meaning to get to it later, and then, along about Memorial Day, I disinter its forgotten and freezer-burned carcass from the bottom of the deepfreeze, give it one look and toss it in the garbage. 

But not this year. 

I pulled out my largest cooking pot. I wrestled with the greasy remains. I chucked in onions, skins and all, along with some celery seed because I was out of celery and all the other mystical ingredients and seven hours later I, too, had made something from nothing.

Last night we had turkey soup with dumplings. I’m pretty sure it was the best such thing I’d ever made. There is a pitcher full of broth in the freezer for another day. A few smaller containers for recipes. Each one gelatinous, healthy, magical.

Something from nothing.

“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…” I don’t know if that song is politically correct these days or not, but I like it. Ezekiel prayed and called an army of bones into the service of God! Talk about something from nothing. It’s a little-recalled Old Testament Bible story, but wow, it’s a good one. My guess is it’s not taught often in Sunday School these days – too strange, too scary for children – but the truth of it is golden: God can take dried up old bones and turn them to His service. Rheumatic old bones. Freezer burned bones.

Kinda makes me realize that even stuck at home in the middle of a pandemic, there’s a place for me in God’s plan. It’s never too late. We’re never too old. God can use our dusty selves.

He’s the maker of our bones, after all.

“Now hear the word of the Lord!”

 

Closed doors and open windows

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So I have a few thoughts this morning. Random, perhaps, but here they are nonetheless.

– I said I’d post every Tuesday. That hasn’t happened! From now on, I will post when I am ready to post. Today, for example, in a crazy shift from the Tuesday format, I am posting on a Friday! I know. Wild. Don’t let yourself get dizzy from this radical change.

– In a total change of subject, it’s a strange feeling to be a time-bomb. Perhaps you can relate. “Do I or don’t I? Will I or won’t I? How bad will it be, if it be at all?” Those are the questions I felt when I was possibly exposed to this stupid virus until we heard that the person I was near did not have it, thankfully. Her husband did, though. And he died. Which is horrible and tragic and shocking. His death has made me want to just stay home a lot more than I did before because what if I have it and I don’t know it and I give it to someone? That scares me more than the illness. Though I’m not exactly wanting to be ill, either. It’s spreading around our town. A lot. Maybe it’s just in different factions than were affected last spring, so I notice it more, but it seems more real now. School is going all online again which is sad, but also good, but also stressful.

– The weather is turning, the leaves are falling, the ice makes nightly appearances on the lake and I haven’t yet worn a hat but I sure have worn my gloves. The cat likes me now that it’s chilly. She jumps in my lap (as long as I have a blanket over my legs) and deigns to grace me with her presence. Everyone in the family is jealous.

An autumn sunset over our point.

– I have begun reading through the Psalms again. One a night. I like some of them and I can’t really relate to others but there are some beautiful words. Psalm 39:4,5 (NIV) really stood out to me, thinking of my friend’s husband. “Show me, Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting my life is. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Everyone is but a breath, even those who seem secure.”

Yes, even those who seem healthy, strong, unlikely to be badly effected, are not secure. God is showing us how fleeting our lives are, and it’s not comfortable. I am intrigued by God’s concept of time, though. I look forward to understanding that when I get to heaven.

In the meantime, we press on. “Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 3:13,14 NIV